


Dear brother

by isa_belle



Series: Dream smp [12]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anger, Angst, Child Abandonment, Claustrophobia, Philza Minecraft's A+ Parenting, Physically and mentally, Suicidal Thoughts, Tommy's not in a good place, TommyInnit Needs a Hug (Video Blogging RPF), a little fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 19:15:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29987559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isa_belle/pseuds/isa_belle
Summary: If you can respect an enemy you can love them too right?Even if it hurts. Even if it’s never gonna stop hurting.or,, a confession, of sorts, from a boy in a cell
Relationships: Technoblade & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), TommyInnit & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Series: Dream smp [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2068152
Comments: 26
Kudos: 189





	Dear brother

**Author's Note:**

> hello :)  
> if you’re reading this, you should probably go back and look at part one beforehand for context
> 
> i don't really like this all that much, but maybe you folks will like it more than i do

Retirement is nice. 

It suits him if he says so himself. There’s something satisfying about laying down your blades and armor. There’s something so wholly good about collecting honey from bees and sewing cloaks for your friends. He likes it, the feeling of calm settling over him. He likes the comfort. 

Technoblade wakes in his bed, dozes in the fuzzy space between awake and dreaming for a while. Rays pour in through the cracks in the curtains, and with them the warmth of the sun against his skin. He smiles, content, and stays in place, bides his time for a few more moments of rest. 

But the day calls, and eventually, he answers it. He drags himself down the stairs, grogginess making his limbs heavy. He shuffles into the kitchen and nods to Phil who gives him these big soft eyes. He makes himself coffee. 

“Morning, mate.” Says Phil, sat in the chair by the fireplace, wings wrapped around himself. He’s not fond of the cold, for reasons Techno can’t understand. He likes the chill, the way it pricks his skin, makes him feel alive. It wakes him up and keeps him present. 

“Good mornin’.”

They amble around the kitchen for a while. It’s the kind of domesticity Techno can let himself enjoy. It’s comfortable and familiar. 

Until there’s a knock at the door. 

They’re ready in an instant. The cabin is hidden, and there are only a few people who know its location. He just hopes it’s someone who means them no harm, they’re jist trying to live in peace. His hand unconsciously grips the hilt of his blade. 

_Careful_ _._ Whisper the voices, the sound echoing off the inside of his skull, followed by the typical wave of  _E_ and _ blood for the Blood god. _

He nudges the door open, Phil close at his heels. But there’s no one outside. Technoblade glances around the terrain, just sees snow as far as his vision stretches. His eyes catch at his feet. 

On the wooden planks of his front steps, covered in snow, sits a book with frayed edges, and the words ‘From Tommy’ scrawled onto the front. He swoops down to grab it, heart racing, turns it over in his hands. 

“What is it?”

Techno shuts the door and turns to Phil, doesn’t meet his eyes. He can’t bring himself to, though he doesn’t quite know why. His face is twisted in concern. “It’s a book.” He shows Phil the cover and a range of emotions flash over his face in an instant. 

“Be careful with that.”

“I will. I mean, I don’t- it’s Tommy’s handwriting.”

Techno isn’t used to feeling disoriented. 

“Then where is he?”

He blinks. 

“I don’t know.”

Techno doesn’t want this. He wants his retirement, he wants his bees. He doesn’t want this. “Can you read it? I don’t want to- I mean, I can, but it’s-“

Phil pats his shoulder. “I’ve got it, mate.” Techno smiles at him gratefully then heads back up the stairs. 

He sits on his bed and he tries to think through his daze. For one, why does he feel dazed? It’s just a dumb book, from traitor no less. So why is his heart pounding?

Tommy left him, he did. Looked him in the eyes and broke his trust, and trust is not something Technoblade hands out carelessly. So why is there this awful feeling of worry in his gut? Why does he feel like he’s gonna be sick? 

The door below swings open, he hears its hinges creak. Techno peers out his window and sees Phil throw up into the snow, and his alarm only grows. He hears the thunk of the book being placed by his door moments later. 

He waits for Phil’s footsteps to fade, before he gently pries it open, snatches up the book with shaking hands. He traces the words on the front, takes a breath. If Phil did it, so can he, right? 

He opens it, flips through the pages, stopping when he lands on one addressed to him. 

_ What is this? _ He wonders, and the voices chime in on his confusion as he begins to read. 

> ~~Hey Techno. ‘Ello Blade. Hi.~~ Technoblade,
> 
> You’re not reading this. I addressed it. But you’re not reading it. Because that’s impossible. Because that’s not how this shithole prison fuckin works. That’s where I am, by the way, if you care to know. ‘Pandora’s vault,’ that’s what Sam calls it (that’s what Dream calls it too.) It’s hot in here, the lava makes it sweaty. My hands won’t stop fucking shaking. Claustrophobia tends to do that in small rooms, to get in your head and freak you the fuck out. I don’t like small spaces anymore. Too many bad memories. 
> 
> I’m scared. I called out for Phil, that’s how scared I am. My brain forgot that no one actually cares enough to get me out of here. 
> 
> Is it bad that I’m scared? I feel like I should be over shit like this by now, the walls can’t hurt me no matter how tight they feel. But my fingers just won’t stop trembling. I guess I’m just weak. 
> 
> But this isn’t about me. Not all of it anyway. It’s more about us. You and me. (Or you and I or whatever the fuck, you fucking grammar freak.)
> 
> My feelings for you are complicated, but so is everything else in my life, so I figured I’d at least attempt to sort through them as best I can. 
> 
> I’m not asking for your forgiveness, I’m asking for an opportunity to tell you why. Because I’m sorry, truly, I am. But I’d do it again, despite how much it hurts, despite how much everything sucks right now. 
> 
> I started Phil’s page with a memory, so I guess I’ll start yours that way too. 
> 
> Do you remember-it was this one visit, when when I was really young. I could barely speak, I couldn’t even say your name, really, you were just ‘Tech.’ I came to you, because Wilbur needed to “talk to Phil,” and I remember I was so exited, because I was excited every time you two came home, because Phil would bring me these little trinkets, dolls and toys. I still have a few, buried in a chest somewhere in my house. Wilbur hated the stupid things. Said they were a lousy substitute for care from a father pretending to love us. 
> 
> He was right, in a way. Of course he was. I just used to believe that he wasn’t. 
> 
> You read to me while Wilbur and  ~~Dad~~ Phil got in screaming matches, scooped me right up and carried me to another room, tried to talk over the arguing. (I still heard it. Shattering glass, Wilbur’s voice cracking. We were so young, Techno. Did you know how we were living?) 
> 
> Greek myths, that’s what you always read. These grand stories of minotaurs and gorgons and great seas and impossible quests. 
> 
> I forgot the yelling, I was enthralled. The sound of your voice drowned out the screams, it was soft, and it painted these lovely pictures in my head. I could pretend for a bit, that I was in them, that I was a hero sailing the seas and fighting and rescuing. (I used to fantasize about savingus too, saving Wilbur. He was so sad, back then. All I wanted in the world was to see my brother smile like he used to. For some reason your dumb stories made me think maybe I could.)
> 
> It was freeing, to hear those tales of heroes beating the odds. It gave me hope, when the power was out because we couldn’t pay the bill, when it was my eighth birthday and Wilbur broke down crying over the cake, when I hadn’t seen my dad for eight months and Wilbur said we were leaving. It was a beacon.
> 
> Do you regret stealing my father? 
> 
> It’s not your fault, not really. He was a grown-ass adult, he chose to leave us of his on volition. But you let him walk out the door. Did you tell him he was a good dad? Did you reassure him on those rare days he actually worried? 
> 
> I know it’s not your fault, _I know it._ But there’s a bitter asshole in my head, and he wants to hate you for taking Phil away. (He sorta sounds like Wil, funny as it is.) 
> 
> Did you know my first word was Dad?
> 
> I wasn’t talking about Phil. 
> 
> We settled on ‘Wilby’ instead. 
> 
> Did you have fun with him on my birthday? When I was home alone, and I was wondering why Wilby was the only one who loved me. Did you feel loved when Wilbur was working two jobs, when the only thing keeping us fed was the fact that Niki worked at the bakery? Did you feel happy with him when Wil spent every other night sobbing helplessly in his room, when a fifteen year old had to be a father? (I could always hear him. The walls were thin. I think he thought he was being discreet, but I didn’t sleep either.)
> 
> I’m sorry. I don’t mean to get angry. I’m not angry, not at you, not when it comes down to it. You can ask Phil what his page said, that might make it clearer. Everything’s out in the open now anyway. 
> 
> I don’t hate you, is what I mean to say. I don’t know if you think that, I don’t know if you care. But this is a confessional of sorts, so I thought I’d just put it out there. 
> 
> I hate what you’ve done, I’ll admit. I hate what you’ve made me. But I never hated you. I don’t think I can. 
> 
> You took my dad away. Not on purpose, but you did. Because Blood gods and adventure are more interesting than a fifteen-year-old son and his brother. And he always cared more about you too. 
> 
> (Remember when you knocked Wilbur down when you were sparring, held a sword to his throat? You lunged at him, consumed by this terrifying bloodlust, almost stabbed him through. Your eyes were wild. I thought he was going to die, but I couldn’t do anything at all. It was the first time I felt truly helpless. It certainly wasn’t the last. 
> 
> Phil pried you off his body, he was shaking like a leaf, and his cheeks were wet with tears. I ran to Wilbur. Phil ran to you. He pulled you to the side to make sure  _you_ were okay.  _I_ bandaged Wilbur’s wounds. I was seven.)
> 
> I told Phil he wasn’t my father. That logically, he didn’t raise me, and he wasn’t around, so the title means nothing past blood. It sounds harsh, and I hope it didn’t hurt (maybe I hope it hurt a little.) But it’s true. And if I can’t consider Phil my dad, can I consider you my brother? (It doesn’t matter what I can and can’t do. My brain has of funny way of being stubborn about the most pointless things. There’s a chest in my house full of dusty old toys to prove it). 
> 
> I want to, I think. I care about you a lot, in spite of myself, in spite of my own actions. I want you to be my brother. But, can you blame me for what I’ve done? The whole point of this dumb fucking letter is to tell you my side of the story. I want to explain myself. 
> 
> But there’s so much to explain, so much that goes into it. It’s fucking messy and shitty and talking about it feels like untangling chords with no ends. It makes me wanna scream and cry and punch someone and come crawling back to your stupid, cold arms. 
> 
> But I have to get it out, I have to. Because I can’t let it rot inside me. Because I can’t just sit in this shitty cell waiting to die, I can’t just sit here. 
> 
> You know you’re dense right? Surely. You’re a smart guy. You’re brave and intuitive. But you’ve got the emotional range of a brick. I think it sorta runs in the family. (Or the not-family. I don’t think you feel I’m your brother, but that’s fine. Seeing you as mine is my own mistake.) Wilbur was always the emotional one, the one who understood. Words not wars, that’s what L’manburg was founded on. Pretty conflicting counterpart to “the only universal language is violence,” huh? 
> 
> You’re so feelings-constipated I thought you hated me the whole time I lived at your house. And I didn’t blame you. I hated me too.
> 
> But you’re a good person. Somewhere beneath the armor and the asshole exterior, under all the grime and blood and emotionally-dense walls, there’s a heart. I’ve seen it. Maybe I don’t deserve to have seen it. But I have. 
> 
> You let me in. And I’m thankful for that, I’m so thankful. But nothing is free, is it? Nothing comes without a price. L’manburg was mine, I guess. Three times over. But that’s neither here nor there. 
> 
> I keep getting side tracked. I’m supposed to be telling my fucking story. 
> 
> So exile.  ~~It was. Dream would. It was my fault, really. He hit me, he yelled. I didn’t care. He came.~~ Sorry. This is hard for me to talk about. Sam is the only one who really-well he knows what Dream told him, I guess. Ranboo knows what he saw. And Tubbo and Puffy know everything I’ve confessed in post-nightmare hysteria. But I’ve never spelled it all out, I try not to think about it. 
> 
> It was more than just loneliness, you know. It was so much more. 
> 
> You know the general rundown, yeah? I burn down George’s house. Dream builds a wall around L’manburg. Tells Tubbo that if he doesn’t kick me out, he’ll box the country in and we’ll never be free. So Tubbo is cornered, and he makes the right choice for the nation. It hits me out of left field. Dream drags me out of L’manburg in a haze. Exile. Logstedshire. I show up at your door. That’s the story right? That’s how it goes. 
> 
> But the details, I guess, are the more important bit. 
> 
> When I got to exile, to Logstead, Ghostbur built a shelter out of logs. I stood in the rain, shock still paralyzing me.  ~~Dream took my~~ Dream told me to drop my things in a hole. I refused. He told me he’d kill me if I didn’t. I dropped my things. 
> 
> He blew them up. My things went in the hole, the only things I had left, mind you. TNT hissed and exploded. It knocked me off my feet and I just laid in the grass in the rain. The day was a bad one, and I’ve always hated explosives. 
> 
> People came sometimes. Some to mock me, some to look. (Phil didn’t. It shouldn’t have hurt but it did. It’s dumb. I should’ve been used to it.)
> 
> Dream came a lot. 
> 
> He never stopped asking me to drop my things. But he started being nice too. He would give me gifts. He told me he was my friend, my only friend. The TNT became a bonding ritual, something fun we did together. He told me that no one else cared. After a while I believed him. I’m weak. After a while, I caved. 
> 
> It was the party that pushed me over the edge, in the end. That was the last straw, the final band holding together my composure snapped and I shattered, a little. I think you heard about it in my incoherent ramble in your cabin, frantic and freezing.
> 
> I planned a party. It was stupid, so stupid. But I was lonely, it was an ache, I missed my friends and my life, I was living in a tent with a ghost and a manipulative bastard for company, for fucks sake. I invited everyone I knew, decorated the beach, made a cake, the whole nine yards. I sent the invitations out with Ghostbur who swore up and down that he’d deliver them all. And I was excited! For the first time in months, I was excited. 
> 
> No one came. 
> 
> _ No one came. _
> 
> I sat alone in my shitty decorations, trying not to cry because the last time I did that in front of Dream, he took it as a personal offense. (I didn’t want him to hurt me, but I didn’t want to hurt him either. He was my friend. He was the only one I had. And that’s how he wanted it.) That was the first time I thought about. Well. 
> 
> It turns out Dream took the invitations. He led Ghostbur out into the snow and he melted away for a while. But he told me that he personally delivered them, and everyone just ignored me, that they hated me and they were glad I was finally gone. And it was my fault, because I was so loud and so irritating and so awful, because I was a stubborn little bug, because why would anyone want that around? Why would anyone want me?
> 
> And I didn’t have an answer. And I don’t. People haven’t stopped leaving yet, and I don’t think they will.
> 
> You and Phil were the first of many. I don’t know what I’m doing, Techno, that makes me so fucking repulsive. I wish I could stop it, but nothing I do is good enough. Because it’s just me, I’m just me, and that’s never gonna be good enough.
> 
> But that doesn’t explain why I showed up at your place, does it? 
> 
> Near the beginning of my exile I made a little room. Dream kept taking my things and I wanted a way to keep the important stuff safe, my pictures of my friends and a few enderpearls. So I built a little room underneath Logstead. 
> 
> Long story short, Dream found it. Long story short, he wasn’t happy. 
> 
> He took the TNT he had on him, littered my little patch of land, and lit it. 
> 
> I begged and pleaded with him. I asked him to stop, I gave him everything on me, but he wouldn’t listen. Sorry didn’t cut it. 
> 
> I watched another home turn into a crater. Another thing Wilbur built fall to rubble. I watched, helpless, because I’m always fucking helpless. I can’t win. I’ve never fucking won a damn thing. Logstead was no different. It was shit, it was an awful place. But it was  _mine. _
> 
> I built a tower. I built a tower so high the lack of oxygen made me see spots. I nearly jumped. It wasn’t the first time I’d thought about it, hell it wasn’t the first time I’d tried. 
> 
> (Bet you didn’t know that, did you Tech? On the way to your house it was all I could do not to lie down in the snow and let myself be buried. Does that make you feel something? Does that get the emotions stirring? Or are you sitting there with that dumb fucking straight face?)
> 
> There’s a stubborn fire in me somewhere, though. And it clawed its way out and demanded I not let some green dickhead be my end (it sounded a bit like Wil too). So I climbed down. I grabbed whatever shit I could dig from the rubble and headed to the tundra. I honestly didn’t know if you’d take me in, I half expected you to turn me away. My feet sort of moved without my permission. 
> 
> I limped in your door, grabbed an apple and scarfed it down like a feral raccoon. Then I passed out in your basement. 
> 
> You found me a day later. And you know the story from there, really. A truce. An alliance. A distance. 
> 
> I don’t think you know how confusing it was for me. You let me in, you kissed my forehead and gave me blankets and food and gifts and tasks. But you never told me you gave a shit. I’m dumb, Tech. I hate to say it but kindness doesn’t equate a loving relationship. Dream was kind too. And it was like you went out of your way to show that you didn’t love me back. 
> 
> I couldn’t just ignore the ‘unless’ under all your words. Dream was after me. You lied for me. But you told him you’d give me up too, if he asked. How do I trust that? How do I trust you when you’re shaking hands with the guy who took everything from me and then took me too? It made my head hurt, the contradiction. 
> 
> And then the fateful day. Or days, I suppose. Doomsday and the second festival. 
> 
> Standing in the community house rubble, facing down my best friend. It felt like like I’d woken up. After ages consumed by myself, drowning in a sea of revenge and fear and redemption, sleeping through my own actions for the ‘greater good,’ for my own conscience. I broke the surface. The ends never justified the means, Techno. Love is as universal as violence, and as effective too (which is to say, not at all). I’d broken the surface and I was alone again. 
> 
> I never wanted to be a bad guy. (I never wanted to be a hero either, in all fairness. I never wanted to be anything other than a kid.) But I was so taken by the idea that I couldn’t let myself become that, I couldn’t fall victim to those stupid words that lived in my dreams, Wilbur’s dumb fucking promise. I failed to realize I was already there, standing in the footprints Wilbur left, then stepping into the ones behind you. 
> 
> But at the end of the day are there really any bad guys? We’re all as awful as we aren’t. There’s no black and white, just gray gray gray, as far as the eye can see. It breaks your stories, it ruins them. That escape is gone, reality’s come to call too many times for my innocence to be in tact. There are no heroes, here. (But there certainly are villains.)
> 
> But it’s still hard to love someone and stand on opposite sides.
> 
> To turn on a heel and face someone you care about where there should be the eyes of the enemy. When those two things are one in the same. 
> 
> It’s hard to throw a punch at someone when you how their laugh sounds bouncing off the walls of a secret little cabin nestled quietly in the woods. It’s hard to yell when you know the gentle softness their voice can adopt pressing bandaids to your cuts, muttering calming nothings to keep you from spiraling up and away. When you know that fond look they get when they’re pretending to be annoyed at you (you think they’re pretending. You tell yourself they’re pretending, because they’d never say it themself), the barely present curve of the lip that gives everything away. 
> 
> It’s difficult to raise a sword to someone who knows what makes you laugh until your stomach aches. When they know how you look when you’re terrified out of your goddamn mind, shaking and frantic and clutching a compass to your chest like a lifeline. When they know what you’re allergic to and the name of the kid who bullied you in Kindergarten and what you look like raw and honest and open and happy and devastated and disappointed and embarrassed and nervous. When they told you stories to lure you to sleep as a child. It’s  _hard_ to love someone and stand on opposite sides. 
> 
> But there are simply some things that can’t be sacrificed. 
> 
> I don’t hate you. _I don’t._ I don’t know that I ever really have. I blustered for sure, a lot of talk. But that’s what I do. Talk. At the end of the day the words are empty and they hardly mean anything at all. I loathed your actions. But not you yourself, never you. And I can lie to myself all I want but it would be just that. A lie. 
> 
> The thing is, I’ve always been in it for L’manburg. Wil’s L’manburg,  _our_ L’manburg. _Our_ safe haven from tyranny in all it’s flawed beauty. My home. 
> 
> In my mind, my discs were the source of every conflict. The root of the problem, the one thing keeping L’manburg from peace. I thought if I got them back everything would somehow magically right itself. That we’d go back to obsidian walls and lakes and brothers who are alive. And the moment that truth fell apart? I realized I couldn’t keep fighting for an object, not really. I couldn’t sacrifice the place I loved for them. I couldn’t kill for something that wouldn’t do anything at all. Not at the cost of every real thing I cared about. Well, maybe not  _every_ thing.
> 
> I mean, I still care for you despite myself. You said I wasn’t loyal, you said “don’t speak to me of loyalty.” 
> 
> But did I ever mean a damn thing to you? Because I sure couldn’t tell. Relationships are two way. You can’t call betrayal when you spent the whole time thinking about how useless I was. I loved you, Technoblade, I idolized you. Was I just that annoying little kid who showed up on your doorstep looking for help? Am I just Phil’s shitty son, the one who’s not dead, Wilbur’s pathetic brother? Why did you let me in if you weren’t going to care. It’s not fair to blame me for turning my back on you when I didn’t even know we were on the same team. Associates, business partners. Never anything more. Why should I feel guilty for betraying you? Why do I feel guilty?
> 
> (Do you feel guilty? Knowing that you ruined everything I had? That I love you anyway and I hate myself for it?)
> 
> Being loyal to you was a betrayal to my home, Techno. I couldn’t let go of L’manburg. I couldn’t just stand idly by and watch it burn. I didn’t love you any less for it. I just loved my country more. 
> 
> I’m sorry that you had to find out how it feels to be abandoned. I’m sorry I had to be the one to show you. It’s genetic, I guess, haha. And I know how it feels. 
> 
> Our goals were always clear and they were never quite aligned. Trying to ignore the contradictions was just delaying the inevitable. That doesn’t cheapen our relationship, and it doesn’t ruin it either. Not to me at least. Respect has been built up, whether we like it or not. (I hope.)
> 
> If you can respect an enemy you can love them too right?
> 
> Even if it hurts. Even if it’s never gonna stop hurting.
> 
> Puffy says I don’t owe you anything. That basic human decency isn’t something you have to repay. But that doesn’t stop me from itching to scoop up my valuables and drop them on your front steps, like it’ll compensate. 
> 
> I was going to make amends. Remember when I told you that? Trekked through the snow, ignored the cold and the way the terrain made me ache with regret and longing. I didn’t really need anything, anything more than an excuse to visit, that is. I meant what I said on your doorstep. If I lived I would fix it. And I lived. 
> 
> But I put it off for too long. I should’ve known peace isn’t something I’m allowed, it’s not something that lasts. Now I don’t know if I’ll ever get the chance. So that’s why I’m writing this. If I die in here (it’s feels more like a when if I’m being honest, but that might just be the panic attack I’ve been having for the past two days talking), this will be left. (Unless Dream burns it, that is.) If I do somehow get out of here, I might give it to you. I haven’t made up my mind on that quiet yet.
> 
> I’m not saying this to make you feel bad, I don’t want your pity, I don’t need it. I’m saying it to let you know where I was. Where I still am, sometimes. But if you read this and feel like you don’t know me, good. Because you don’t.
> 
> I reckon I’ll stop writing now. I don’t think I have anything else to say to you. And this cell is dreadful. I think it’s worse than exile, maybe. 
> 
> If I die here, I’m sorry. That you’ll never see me again, though maybe that’s how you want it. That I never got to say these things out loud. That I never got to say goodbye, or thank you, or fuck you. ~~When~~ _If_ I die here. _If. _
> 
> I love you. Maybe it’s fucked up, but it doesn’t really matter, does it?
> 
> Bye, Tech. 
> 
> -TommyInnit

Techno drops the book. His fingers go limp and it slips from his hands and hits the floor with a thump.

The anger comes last, but first, there’s shock. For once the voices hush. 

He isn’t one to be at a loss for words, he’s  The Blade. He can monologue at the drop of the hat, he’s eloquent and precise and deliberate in his language. He understands words, he understands how to shape them. 

He wants to defend himself. But his mouth is empty. For once he can’t think of a damn thing to say. He doesn’t know what to make of it. 

Because that isn’t what he expected. He thought he’d flip the cover and Tommy would tell him that he was a bitch. He never expected-the pages are so honest, so open. 

That’s not Tommy, there’s no way that’s Tommy. Tommy, Tommy doesn’t act like that, he doesn’t speak like that. 

_ But if you read this and feel like you don’t know me, good. Because you don’t._

Phil walked out after handing the book off. He heard the door slam, saw him grab his coat. He can guess where he’s going. The prison, the vault. To break out his son. To make up for his sins. Penance needs to begin somewhere, he supposes. And he’ll admit Philza has something to repent for. Half of him is itching to follow and the other is so heavy with guilt and anger and confusion that he can’t even think of moving from the spot he’s anchored in now. 

Of course he cared about Tommy when he lived in the cabin. Maybe he didn’t say it in so many words, but metaphors and allegories were always more his style. He’s never been good at being direct, he’s never been good at being vulnerable. Tommy knew that, he _had_ to have known that. 

A part of him wonders what Phil’s said. Tommy’s declaration of denouncement, disowning. Techno will admit he’s not the most emotionally conscious person, but even he’s aware enough to understand the Phil failed his kids, no matter how much he loves him anyway. 

Tommy said he could ask, he could look. But maybe he won’t pry without permission. Respect is something Techno values, and respecting privacy is a part of that. 

Did Tommy really-a brother. Tommy was always a little bother, annoying and loud and traitorous. So why did the word make his heart swell and stutter? Why does he feel so  _ bad? _

_ Protect the child. Traitor, he’s a traitor. Kill Dream. Blood, blood, blood.  _ Kill Dream. 

_ _ _Dream._ That bastard. Who drew a line in the sand between Tommy and Technoblade, who beat the light of of the boy, who pulled on their strings just like everyone else’s. Techno doesn’t like being controlled. He doesn’t like it when other people have power over him, or anyone else, for that matter. Anarchy is about freedom, not manipulation. That’s not how it’s supposed to go. 

Is Techno a fool? He ponders a question he’s never pondered before.  _Did I make a mistake?_

He’s never once questioned his own judgment. He assumes he’s always in the right. He didn’t think to-he didn’t consider what Tommy may have been through. Tommy’s the boy who cried wolf, yelling and screaming over nothing. When he’s actually in danger you can’t tell if it’s just dramatics, but you assume. (It makes him wonder if it was ever dramatics at all.)

But suicide? He doesn’t even want to think of Tommy; happy, loud, excitable little Tommy, Tommy who begged to spar with him as a kid, waving around a wooden sword, who could fall asleep anywhere, on Techno’s shoulder and lap, in Wilbur’s arms, who swore at the skies with spirit, bad jokes and rage and laughter,  _that_ Tommy, on the edge of-

He knows he wasn’t well off when he showed up, but he never knew it was that bad.  _He didn’t know._

He feels guilt in his retirement. He’s powerful enough to secure himself the safety of stepping back. Tommy’s a kid. Tommy doesn’t have that, he’s too young to make it for himself. 

But Tommy betrayed him, he’s sure of it. He left him out to dry, Techno remembers the feeling, like his chest cracking open. A feeling like that doesn’t come from nothing. 

Was it two-way? Techno knows he’s not good at communication. Did his own stubbornness and pride cost him his br-did it cost him Tommy?

He didn’t mean to be cold. It’s just his nature. He never learned how to be open. 

Standing in his room, for the first time in his life, Techno lets himself really try to feel empathy. He knows what it’s like to be cast out, to feel like you’ve lost everything. (A voice in his head tells him it’s all nothing on what’s happened to Tommy. He has three lives, he has a home. That if Techno was Tommy’s age he wouldn’t be nearly as strong as the boy behind bars.) He lets himself consider the enemy, the way he feels, the way he is. ( _Just a boy. You treat him like a man but he’s not even 17, he’s just a boy._ ) He wants to sweep him back up in his arms, like Tommy’s memory, he wants to tell him about Perseus, the hero who survived, who was better for his struggle. He wants to protect him, to defend him. But he’s still angry. He’s still petty and Tommy still left him behind, no matter what he’s been through. 

He makes a decision. Despite it all. He makes a choice. 

Techno rushes down the stairs and out the door, clutching his sword tight. 

“Phil!” He cries against the wind. The man turns. 

“Techno?”

He steels himself, takes a breath. “I’m coming with you.”

He’s going to make this right. 

Phil gives him a shaky smile. He supposes that’s a start. “Okay, let’s go.”

The road to forgiveness is as long and grueling as the road to  _ forgiving _ . But you have to  begin  a journey to reach its end.

He takes a step into the snow. Then he takes two more. The walk is long, but he’ll walk it, he thinks. Because maybe he’ll end it better off than he started. Maybe they’ll all end up better off. 

He’s not gonna let Tommy be Theseus. He’s not gonna let his _brother_ waste away. 

He takes three more steps. Then four. 

It’s begun. He could turn back but he won’t, a nd he finds, to his own surprise, that he doesn’t really want to. 

**Author's Note:**

> fine, they won't make a universe where techno gives a fuck? i'll do it myself.
> 
> thanks for reading >:D  
> if you liked it, you should comment please, validating me is free  
> i hope you all have wonderful days  
> Byee


End file.
